


Hitchin' A Ride

by Ivy_Brooks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4924285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_Brooks/pseuds/Ivy_Brooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill: "Dean's stuck on a packed subway car. The guy behind him is pushed right up against him, his groin to Dean's ass, and it's hitting just right. The rocking of the car is causing them to rub together, and it's really starting to turn Dean on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hitchin' A Ride

Dean _hates_ subway transport. 

It's overcrowded and rank. Mysterious stains are the décor and there's a guy suffering the worst case of halitosis Dean has ever smelt _in his life_ stood before him. The smell is right up there with Sam's gas after Taco Bell, and that alone means Dean is about an inch away from passing out. But he has to persevere; the life of his paycheck depends on it. 

Thing is, his job at Sandover is on the other fucking side of the city, the shitty part, and Dean would rather rough it out on this clanking metal deathtrap than park his Baby in the crime-riddled downtown area. Who knew what'd happen to his precious Impala out there? Thugs, deviants, thieves - hell, _arsonists_. Dean was a reckless guy but he had his reservations, especially where they concerned four wheels, the smooth glide of eight pistons, a sleek black paint job... 

He thinks he might be drooling when the car lurches to a halt at its next stop; Dean's body bends with the momentum, knuckles white where he grips the pole he's leaning on, briefcase lodged between his feet, spare hand dangling by his side. Mr Halitosis turns (thank God) to press his back into the pole at Dean's front, in order to let another flood of people rush into the freshly provided space. Sardines in a metal tube. 

Along with the new onslaught of perfumes, mobile phone jingles and cloying chatter, there's a body - warm, male, and firm in places Dean shouldn't even be able to _feel_ \- pushed unceremoniously into Dean's back. The tube grinds to a hunkering start, and that firm body presses tight into Dean's shoulderblades as he swings backwards. He prays to God that the guy is at least somewhat clean; this suit's Italian, and he isn't willing to fork out for a new one anytime soon. 

There's a hard lurch, and the guy's hips - sharp, _hard_ indents - press firmly into Dean's ass, trapping him against his pole, and the realisation that this feels familiar jolts through Dean in one blinding wave. Many a one night stand had been spent like this, pressed against a wall or bent over, some nameless guy's cock a hot, thick line of silken skin against the crease of Dean's ass, teasing and slick and - oh, oh, Dean does _not_ want to get full-blown chubby on the fucking _subway_ of all places. 

The car jostles along, clicking and clacking, bright artificial lights flickering above, and Dean thinks of England, because he's good and better than this. He's perfected compartmentalising; family, job, sex life. All three very separate things. Dean's currently in the job compartment, and he intends to keep in that way. 

Then the stranger's body slides against him, hips slotting up _just so_ , and Dean is sweating trying to keep his dick from waking up. Thing is, his brain's an asshole, so the one thing Dean _doesn't_ want to think about is abruptly the _only_ thing, and his canine digs into the soft swell of his bottom lip, feeling his cock thicken in his slacks, mentally cursing as a slew of blurry, fleshed-out fantasies roll through his head, wheels turning on a well-ridden rollercoaster. This section of railway track is obviously complete shit, because there's a rhythmic bump every few seconds, pushing their bodies together in a gentle rocking swing, mimicry of fucking, and Dean feels sweat drip down his nape. 

There are at least six stops before he gets off (no not like that), and he has until then to get his body under control. Maybe half an hour, at most. 

Damnit, if he could cut all gluten from his diet in a week flat, then he could keep his dick under control. 

The mock-fuck is still going on however, driving Dean to spiral even higher when, through the blunted feel of skin through thin slacks, he feels the outline of the other man's cock. Not hard, not by any stretch - they're simply pressed so tightly together that Dean can _feel_ it, resting snug between the guy's thighs; stranger must be a fellow businessman, suited up in slacks, because there is no way in hell Dean's sensitive enough to feel a soft cock through denim and the like.

A sudden flash of memory burns, hot and bright in his minds eye; when his co-worker Benny Lafitte had bent him over his desk, still suited up slacks n' all, fucking him hard after hours, still in the office. Dean's lip is swollen now, skin itching, clothes too tight to hold the steadily rising heat of his skin and - shit, did he just moan? 

The other man has tensed behind him. Dean feels himself plunge into the depths of hell. He fucking moaned. Out _loud_. _On a subway car full of people_. 

Wrong pervades him all at once, and the urgent need to _get away_ coils tight around his rabbit-fast heart and constricts. They're at another stop. More people come and go, but his stranger stays, whilst shame tunnels into Dean's gut and makes itself at home. His cock is hard, unashamed, unlike the rest of Dean's body, and he ducks his head, clenching his eyes shut, nails digging into the meat of his palm. Salad. Hilary Clinton. Kale flavoured ice-cream. Kinky old man sex. 

His cock starts to go down, uninterested in the wrinkly mental images Dean's providing, and he thinks he's won the battle, mind over body, kung fu warrior Winchester - but then... then the soft outline of the stranger's cock twitches. 

_Twitches_. 

He's been refraining as much as Dean and yep, Dick is back up and ready for action. Great job, Universe. 

A delicious twist of sinful lust and shame dance together through his nerves as he feels the other man fill out behind his slacks. Two thin, cool layers of trouser fabric do nothing to smother the thick heat pressed against Dean's backside. As a more submissive kind of guy, Dean likes that - likes knowing he's turning someone on, likes holding the hardening proof of it in his hands, his mouth, anywhere he can, because that kind of reaction demonstrates that his partner is into it, into _him_ \- but this? This is a _whole_ different ball game. Whole different ball park, even. Hell, it's so different, Dean's not even sure that there's a ball _involved_ anymore. 

They're two strangers, hard and silent on a subway car full of people. The exhibitionistic twist makes Dean twitch all over, static buzzing across the hairs on his forearms. Stunted and hot, a breath punches out of the guy behind him, landing on the back of Dean's neck and Dean can't help it - he cants his hips as the car thuds over another bump, exaggerating the movement into a full on grind. He hears the guy swear in a deep, chocolatey voice, gravelled and low, and Dean sighs through a smirk. Heh. A whole new meaning to the phrase 'bump n grind'.

Now that he knows they're both on board for this, he lets his mind wander - what does the guy look like? He's built, Dean can feel that easy through the thin layers of his clothing, but is he hot? Dark hair or light? Bright eyes? Would he pin Dean down with big, powerful hands and fuck him from behind into a sobbing, babbling mess? Or would he lay Dean down with gentle touches, suck him off with plush lips as he opened him up with strong fingers, slow-fuck him until he came crashing apart, split like white-tipped sea waves against looming black rock?

They stop again. Dean's lost count of how many stops they've passed now. People trickle out of the car, crowd thinning. A wet patch has worked its way across Dean's crotch, he can feel it, the cooling, stick-drag of fabric across his cock and shit, he just hopes it hasn't seeped through all the way to his slacks. Wet boxers he can hide for the rest of the day - wet trousers? Forget about it. 

Warmth brushes his side and he jumps as the train speeds up again, front pressing painfully against the pole as careful fingers creep around the bulge of his hip, fingers digging in, a blunt pressure that'll leave bruises he'll trace over later. Dean can only pray that the guy's hand is hidden by Dean's suit jacket, otherwise the elderly lady sat on a wall-bolted seat to the left of them will surely start to suss them out. 

And that right there - that thought is what pushes Dean close to the edge, exhilaration and fear pulling deep in his gut, taut as violin strings, and there's no subtlety in it now; with every bump, jostle and lurch the car gives, they rut against each other, bodies clothed and rolling. The rumble of the track beneath them and the constant chatter of the car is teetering on 'not loud enough' as it covers up the tight breaths of the stranger, and Dean's own lower, tight-lipped growls. 

The guy's cock - thick, and so so long - is lined up perfect, dragging obscene lines against Dean's ass, hot chuffs of air at Dean's ear, and if he closes his eyes, he's almost riding it, bouncing up and down over those taught thighs and fucked within an inch of his life. The pole hasn't crumpled under Dean's deathgrip on it, which is surprising, and he can't jack off with his free hand, no, because that's a fucking _felony._

Dean's pinned between a cold pole and a hard cock, and he's fucking _trembling_ for it. 

However many stops left to go, and Dean's close to coming - miles away from his initial goal. The goal where he wasn't going to get turned on. The goal where hadn't been rutting against a stranger in public. The goal where he was _sane._

Everyone pours out of the car at the next stop, and Dean realises that he should be following, because it's his stop too, city centre. He thinks he's going to have to shove the stranger off of him and make a break for it, but he feels the guy - tense and wound - squeeze Dean's hip and pull away, fingers dragging, like it's the hardest thing he's ever done. Dean's head snaps around, desperate to catch a glimpse as the stranger darts off the car amongst a sea of bodies. It only takes a single snippet of tan fabric and a dark head of hair to sear itself into Dean's retinas before he realises that that was Castiel Bluett, CEO and industry big shot, a hit with the ladies and all-round charmer. 

Also, Dean's boss.

This was not a good start to the day.


End file.
